


Johnlock Ficlet Collection

by kimbiablue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, generally just about pining gay morons, tumblr ficlets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 06:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11248089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimbiablue/pseuds/kimbiablue
Summary: Just a dumping ground for all of the ficlets I cross-post on my tumblr! These are of varying length and content, but no nsfw and honestly these are basically just about our ridiculous gay morons being in love.





	1. sappy emotional cuddling bs

**Author's Note:**

> Been meaning to dump all my tumblr ficlets onto my AO3 for a while. At the time of posting this, I have five to dump, which is... actually less than I thought, but I have another I'm hoping to post tomorrow so huzzah.
> 
> This first one is sappy and emotional and pretty extra lmao. I dreamed the majority of it and then just wrote it the next day. WHOOPS.

John’s bed has never felt as warm as it does now, with Sherlock climbing in beside him. Long limbs are folded uncertainly before John reaches out for a pale shoulder, murmuring the other man’s name, and Sherlock turns, their breath ghosting together under the duvet.

“Sherlock,” John exhales, more breath than speech, as their eyes meet, and there is so much between them that has always been unspoken that it would be a punch to the stomach, if it weren’t for the gentle heat blossoming inside him; the knowledge that they’ve begun to speak these things is warmth, and Sherlock is the sun.

In the morning, there will be time. Time to run his fingers through obsidian curls, time to press languid kisses to the perfect bow of lips or collarbone or waist, time to forget what the world looks like outside of opalescent eyes. Time to whisper and to shout things he’s meant to for years. Time for Sherlock to do just the same.

Tears begin at the corner of John’s eyes, blistering, fitting given the tender burn within him, and he finds he does not care. Here in the quiet comfort of the bed, his throat swells and he knows he is in love, irrevocable and sublime. This man who has saved his life, has been saved in return, and who now slides a hand past the collar of his jumper, is all he will ever need. Sherlock is eternity.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice is low, intimate, only for him in this scant space they’ve carved, emotion choking the word, and John is drowning. His breath shudders as the tears fall, overcome as he is with the depth of his affection and need.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, enfolding him until their bodies are indistinguishable, wrapped together in the bedclothes, and John weeps without restraint. There is no precedent for this love he cannot bear to live one more second of his life without. There is no precedent for the surge in his chest when he realizes he will never again have to.

“Sherlock, there’s nothing but you.” He is broken, and whole, both more completely than he has ever been before.

“John,” Sherlock repeats, softly, softly now, silent tears of his own disappearing into the fabric of the jumper. “I will never want for anything, the way I want you.”

They remain enveloped in scent and warmth and salt water until, nearly asleep, they move centimeters, as one, for their lips to meet. Soft, light, but scorching. John kisses Sherlock, tranquil and warm, and waits for tomorrow.


	2. some angsty first kiss crap after The Hug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this crap after The Hug, where I still had hope for johnlock confirmation in ep 3. :) :) :)

Sherlock holds him.

Even after his sobs subside, and he’s lowered his hand from his face to the back of that expensive blue dressing gown, Sherlock continues to hold him.

Nothing is okay. But this is comfortable.

Sherlock’s cheek pressed into his hair, pale hands strong and sure and gentle on his shoulder and his back. The fire warming them. The familiar scent of 221B, and of Sherlock.

Phrases echo in his head. _Gone before you know it. Complete you as a human being. I still do. Get the hell on with it. It is what it is._

To John, standing here in Sherlock’s arms, it all feels like a precipice. There have been many in the years he’s known this man. All chances never taken.

This could be the one they don’t miss.

“Sherlock.” John says into Sherlock’s chest. He raises one foot over the edge, over the vast abyss.

“Yes, John.” Quiet, patient, tender, murmured into his hair.

He doesn’t respond at first. His foot hovers in the air. The drop from the edge is terrifying.

But it’s better than what he’s leaving behind. “I do still want more.”

Sherlock huffs a breath into his hair.

“But not with a woman on a bus. Not with just anyone.“

He extends his arms. He falls forward.  
“I wonder if Mary knew I was never hers. Not really.”

Flush against his chest, John can feel when Sherlock’s breathing stops, and when his heart picks up. He takes gasping breaths of the air whipping past him as he descends.

“Of course I never was. And of course it’s not the Woman.”

Sherlock’s arms wrap around John a little tighter. John doesn’t think someone watching would have even noticed. But he can feel it.

 _“I’ve just got one. It’s always you. Sherlock’s a girl’s name. It is what it is._ Can’t you say what you really mean?“

The last few words might be a shout into Sherlock’s shirt.

There’s a soft, helpless sound, exhaled on the top of his head. “It was never the right time.”

John’s heart stutters. He’s left the mental abyss and he’s here.

“What about. Now?” He pulls back far enough to look at the man before him, the man who used to sneer at love and call it a defect. The man who has become more human than anyone John has ever known. The man John has loved for years.

Sherlock is silk and stubble and pain and fear and love.

“Are you ready to hear it?” His lips quiver. His fingers move to latch onto John’s arms.

John’s breath leaves him in what could be considered the quietest of laughs. “I don’t know. Am I even ready to say it myself?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, just watches him with those silver eyes that seem to melt in the firelight. John has never loved anything as much.

“Right. It’s not okay. Not right now. But that doesn’t make this less true. There’s nothing else for me.”

He gestures at the flat. Sherlock’s arm moves with his.

“I’m not the same man who missed his chances before. I’m taking them now, but it won’t be as easy.”

But part of him knows that it will be easier, in a sense. They’re embracing by the fire at Baker Street. They’ve gone further than they ever have. It’s all been spoken in the ridiculous manner they have always had. And they understand each other perfectly.

“Will you wait, Sherlock?”

He’d waited. He wants to bring up the fall. He doesn’t.

“Oh, John.” Sherlock’s lips curve up, all softness and no angles. “I’ve been waiting my entire life. I think I’ll manage. As long as it’s you.”

John doesn’t see Mary now. Maybe he’ll never know what she really was. But he’s glad for what what his heart made her, in the absence of Sherlock, to push him back to where he belongs. 

He wants to kiss Sherlock, desperately.

“God, Sherlock. Who the hell knows what this is.” He laughs this time, a small, broken sound. “Please say I can kiss you.”

Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change, though John had expected it to. He simply blinks, eyes burning into John’s. He nods. John can feel their hearts racing alongside one another.

It’s tentative, and different, and laden with inexperience on Sherlock’s part. But it’s incredible, it’s healing, it’s home.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to know what to say as they face each other. John waits, staring at lips wet from his own.

“You taste like bergamot.”

John smiles at how, despite everything, Sherlock is still Sherlock.

“You never drank Earl Grey here.”

John shrugs. He’s still in awe. He thinks he’s smiling but he can’t be sure. It would feel so foreign now.

“You can drink it here.” Sherlock is suddenly shy, hopeful. Trembling. John can feel it. “I’ll buy some. I promise I will.”

It sounds like a promise to buy tea. John knows it’s a promise for so much more.

“I’d like that.” He pulls Sherlock back into an embrace. Nearly 7 years. They’ve never done this. They’re idiots, he thinks.

It’s not okay. It’s not now, and it won’t be, John doesn’t know for how long. But he has Sherlock. That’s all he’s ever had. And they will get through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to stop by my tumblr, also [kimbiablue](kimbiablue.tumblr.com) and say hello! :)


	3. precious angsty self-doubting lil sherlock, song ficlet I wrote for a friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had never heard this song before (by your side by Sade), but my dear friend shawleyleres on tumblr asked me for a song fic and I jumped on it :)

The music starts. John’s lips quirk up to one side and he runs his fingertips over the back of the pale hand he holds in his lap.

_You think I’d leave your side, baby?  
You know me better than that_

Sherlock’s brows pull down. John gives a small, amused shake of the head in response.

_You think I’d leave you down when you’re down on your knees?  
I wouldn’t do that_

In the course of eight years, John has come to understand Sherlock as a highly emotional man, far removed from the portrait of a sociopath he had once tried so hard to present. However, John cannot say he has ever truly understood the depth of insecurity behind Sherlock’s confidence (and sometimes arrogance).

He holds Sherlock’s gaze, now, watching lashes blink rapidly over those incredible eyes, the music swelling through the flat. Whether the detective is confused or moved or perhaps just staring at him as he usually does, John can’t tell.

_I’ll tell you you’re right when you want  
And if only you could see into me_

The years have been generous with Sherlock’s humanity, bringing compassion and sacrifice and love. John thinks he should have known that with the demolition of emotional guards, and the introduction of a romantic partnership, insecurity would only naturally follow.

_Oh, when you’re cold_  
I’ll be there  
Hold you tight to me 

“What if I never stop saying things that are not good?” Sherlock had asked him. “What if I sulk one too many times after a row about the shopping or acceptable sleeping times or the fact that I’ve deleted some social courtesy or other?”

“I don’t care about any of that,” John had replied.

_When you’re on the outside, baby, and you can’t get in  
I will show you you’re so much better than you know_

“What if I always put sugar in your tea whenever I actually make tea?”

“Sherlock,” John had said, laughing. “I especially don’t care about that.”

John regrets laughing now, just a little. He runs a hand over Sherlock’s cheek, over the bow of his lips, relishing the flutter of eyelids in response to his touch, and the small burst of heat in his own chest. He doubts they’ll ever stop wanting each other.

_When you’re lost and you’re alone and you can’t get back again  
I will find you darling and I will bring you home_

“What if I can’t…” Sherlock had flapped a hand in the air and thrown himself down in his chair. “Satisfy you?”

John had simply stared down at him, no reply forthcoming.

Sherlock had raised his eyes, looking embarrassed and yet impatient. “You know. Sexually.”

“Sherlock,” John had started, but closed his mouth again. The most gorgeous and tempting person he’d ever known was asking him this. He’d kissed every inch of Sherlock’s body, heard that voice in all manner of gasps and cries and moans, felt those elegant fingers in places that set him running hot just remembering.

They don’t make love as often as John was accustomed to in relationships, but he’d found it didn’t bother him a lick. He’d been so in love with Sherlock, for years, and if he were honest, their first time, or their first kiss, or even just the very first moment that he’d known for sure that Sherlock loved him too, when they’d broken down together in desperate confession… that would have been enough for the rest of his life.

_And if you want to cry  
I am here to dry your eyes_

He’d knelt in front of Sherlock, placing a hand on his knee, struck by the memory of his stag night, years ago. Before Sherlock was his. Before he’d been granted the incredible gift of being loved by Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” he’d tried again, lips turned up in a smirk. “When I take you to bed, or you decide the hall is the perfect place to suck me off, or when you can’t even remember your name because of what I’m doing to you, and I get to see that brilliant mind switching on and off in pleasure… you think I’m not satisfied?”

John had rocked back on his heels then, suddenly coursing with no small measure of arousal, drawing in a deep breath to will himself back to the topic at hand. The blush that spread across Sherlock’s face would have been thoroughly distracting, were it not for the wounded expression underneath.

“But John,” Sherlock had whispered. “What if I’m just not _enough_? You deserve so much.”

_And in no time  
You’ll be fine_

Something had tightened in John’s chest, and then he was pressing into Sherlock’s lap, kissing him, running hands up into curls, mind racing in an attempt to find the right words to say.

His lips and hands had slowed, and he’d pulled back with a half smile, certain of his next action but unsure of what the reception might be. He’d stood, crossed to his laptop, queued a song, and pulled Sherlock to sit on the sofa with him.

“Right, look, Sherlock, I love you,” he says now, as the music continues on around them. “And I can’t imagine why you’d ever doubt that you’re worthy of it, but I figured music might help you understand. Even if it’s, y'know, pop culture music.”

There’s a shrug and a quirk of lips from Sherlock in concession to the statement. John laughs, all fondness, and strokes his thumb over Sherlock’s lips again.

“Whatever bothers you, ever, we’ll get through it. I don’t care if your tea is more sugar than water. I don’t care if you’re in a strop sometimes. I don’t care if you only want to fuck once a week or once a month. I don’t care if you don’t eat or sleep for four days when we’re on a case. Well, I do care about that, but our rows about it won’t be enough to drive me off. Nothing ever will.”

Sherlock’s lips are trembling beneath his fingers. He turns his body to directly face the man, their knees slotting together.

“I’m not ever giving you up,” he tells Sherlock, a subtle growl in his tone. “Most days I can barely believe that after all these years, I finally have the fucking pleasure of calling you mine.”

The song ends, but Sherlock is frozen under John’s touch, stormy eyes glistening, giving him away.

John is all at once overwhelmed, wanting, needing, to drive home how indescribably lucky he feels to be enough for this person he loves more than anything. He claims those lips again, hard, climbing right into Sherlock’s lap, tears building in the corners of his eyes as he drowns in adoration.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock breathes through kisses. “You’re everything. God, everything.”

—

John wakes to the sound of the Stradivarius floating through the door of their bedroom.

He stretches, chuckling as he catches sight of Sherlock’s rumpled suit jacket and trousers on the floor. He remembers how much it used to turn him on, to wake in the morning after a night of glorious love making and see those expensive articles abandoned, having been hastily removed and promptly forgotten. Still turns him on, if he’s being honest. He swings his legs over the bed, ignoring the growing interest in his pants in favor of heading toward the music.

He is greeted in the sitting room by an image he knows will be imprinted in his mind until the day he dies, and perhaps longer than that - Sherlock, back to John as he faces out the window, curls dancing as he moves with the music he plays.

He moves to lean against his chair, content to watch Sherlock and not speak. He doesn’t recognize the tune, but he hazards a guess that’s it’s not classical, and also that it’s not an original composition of Sherlock’s, as he’s developed a feel for the detective’s style. The notes are slightly faster paced than what he normally plays, and a touch more upbeat, a song that sounds as though it probably doesn’t belong on a violin, though Sherlock can adapt anything.

Then Sherlock begins to sing, voice rich and low, something John rarely has the fortune to hear, and he suddenly understands.

_When you’re on the outside, baby, and you can’t get in  
I will show you you’re so much better than you know_

Sherlock’s head turns from the window, gaze drifting over John, eyes iridescent with the morning light. John is half aware of the picture he presents - a grown man standing with his mouth open in a shocked smile, tenting his pants, eyes locked onto the man advancing towards him with not a beat missed.

_When you’re lost and you’re alone and you can’t get back again  
I will find you darling and I will bring you home_

This is simultaneously the most arousing and most sentimental thing John has ever been witness to. He steps around his chair to bring a hand up to Sherlock’s, the music fading as the strings still. The memory of tears and declarations drawn from Sherlock as John pressed kisses to his skin and buried himself inside him the previous evening burn clear and vivid in his mind, and he tightens his grip on Sherlock’s hand.

“I love you,” he tells Sherlock. “Christ, I love you. And you’d better put that violin down right now.”

Sherlock smiles, radiant and cocky and eager. John barrels him down into his chair as the Strad is set safely aside, their lips meeting furiously, and he can taste everything except doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to stop by my tumblr, also [kimbiablue](kimbiablue.tumblr.com) and say hello! :)


	4. first kiss in the flat, vague parentlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some jumped up romantic nonsense I spit out one day!

It comes on suddenly, one afternoon at Baker Street.

John is descending the stairs from his bedroom to the sitting room, having taken Rosie to her cot for a nap, and he’s grateful that at only a few months over a year old, she still requires them (quite soon she will also require a room of her own in the flat, a topic which John has steadfastly avoided acknowledging). He’s barely cleared the last step before Sherlock appears at his shoulder with a cup of tea.

“I heard the fuss she gave you before she finally fell asleep,” Sherlock says, voice and smile soft. “I made sure this would be hot for when you came down.”

John wonders if, after ten, twenty, thirty more years, he’ll ever be able to truly forgive himself for hurting this man. Or if he’ll ever truly deserve to have him in his life.

He takes the cup and saucer, fingers brushing pale knuckles. Desire, anxiety, and the deepest love he’s ever known sweep up his veins, and his next action is instantaneous.

He inhales deeply through his nose, steps directly between Sherlock’s legs, turns him so his back hits the front door, slips the hand not holding the saucer through dark curls, and pauses for one moment. He locks onto Sherlock’s impossibly gentle, molten silver, and quite thoroughly dilated eyes.

“Sherlock.” He’s not sure if he’s asking or telling.

“John.” The response comes in a hushed, broken baritone, and John grips both saucer and hair tighter as he presses in and fits their mouths together.

Sherlock yields to him, as some part of John had always expected. He’s softer now, less sharpness and haughty grace, more compassion and benevolence. John has never stroked his face, but he does so now; he imagines that before now, before their embrace weeks previous, Sherlock would never have felt as warm and soft and consuming as he does now.

_Perhaps not suddenly_ , John thinks. This has been building between them since he returned to Baker Street, since Sherlock came back from the dead, since the very first day they met.

The cup rattles in the saucer as he attempts to shift even closer, lips and tongue now moving against Sherlock’s, desperate and burning with a million missed opportunities. He remembers the spindly table near the door with great relief, and breaks away to set the saucer atop a small stack of books balanced upon it, and pull down a shaking breath.

“I’m in love with you,” he tells Sherlock without preamble, hands clutching broad shoulders beneath a silken dressing gown. “And I always fucking have been.”

Sherlock’s chest is heaving and there are tears shining on his cheeks and John waits for him to respond.

There will be no way for them to say everything that needs to be said in this moment, but he hopes they’ll have time.

“Think of how much time we’ve wasted,” Sherlock finally replies, voice drowned in fresh tears. Lost. Heartbroken. John never wants to see that wretched expression on his face again.

“No,” he manages, hands moving to pull Sherlock in by the waist, and he’s a bit startled at the honest sensual growl his own voice has become. “Think how much we have to make up for, and how much time we’ll have to do it.”

“John, I’ve loved you for longer than you know.” Sherlock looks as overwhelmed as John feels, and the corners of his own eyes burn. “Please say you’ll stay. With Rosie. Forever. There will never be anything more important to me than the both of you.”

“Not even the work?” John laughs through a sob.

Sherlock’s answering laugh is deep and dulcet, and his hands grasp John’s face to bring them back together in a kiss amid the taste of tears.

The tea goes cold. John is consoled by the idea that there will be more, for the rest of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to stop by my tumblr, also [kimbiablue](kimbiablue.tumblr.com) and say hello!


	5. pining morons musing about doctor who

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought of this and it pleased me so I wrote it, even though it's a short blurb lmao.

Imagine John and Sherlock watching Doctor Who, and they hear River’s line about Twelve - “When you love the doctor, it’s like loving the stars themselves. You don’t expect a sunset to admire you back.”

Sherlock would cock his head and turn to John, next to him on the sofa.

“Does that quite make sense to you, John?” he would say. “Or is it just sentimental nonsense?”

John would shift where he’s sat and grin over at Sherlock. “Sentimental nonsense for sure, yeah. But probably some truth in it.“

Then he would fall silent for a moment. Sherlock would wait patiently, observing that John isn’t finished speaking.

“Dunno about a sunset though. Stars, right, probably something darker…” John’s eyes would flit over Sherlock’s hair, his skin, his dark blue dressing gown. “Light on dark, yeah. Stars. Yeah.”

Sherlock would be clueless. John would clear his throat and turn his head back to the telly.

“Really, John? The sun makes perfect sense to me. Conductor of light and all.” Sherlock would say, feeling bold, glancing over as his lips would quirk to one side.

John would glance back at him, confused for a moment, then intrigued, and then-

Sherlock had called him a conductor of light once. John would wonder - is he…? Or who is he talking about? Another person he’d call a conductor of light? John would sprain them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to stop by my tumblr, also [kimbiablue](kimbiablue.tumblr.com) and say hello!

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to stop by my tumblr, also [kimbiablue](kimbiablue.tumblr.com) and say hello! :)


End file.
